Story: Biometrics don't lie. Part 20.

by Melissa 

Part 20. Striking a deal with the devil. 

The morning sun, filtered through heavy silk drapes the colour of clotted cream, cast a soft glow across the opulent bedroom. I, Melissa Jones, stirred, a groan escaping my lips. My head throbbed, a dull ache that mirrored the unease churning in my stomach. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the light, taking in the room's extravagant details. A four-poster bed, crafted from dark, polished wood and draped with a canopy of sheer, shimmering fabric, dominated the space. Ornate, gilded mirrors lined one wall, reflecting the plush, velvet chaise lounge and the antique writing desk tucked near the window. A thick, Persian rug, rich with intricate patterns, muffled my bare feet as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. 

Though I'd been living in this room for weeks, it rightfully belonged to the other Melissa Jones, the redhead. And that thought, sharp and insistent, was the source of my headache. The previous day's events also replayed in my mind, a chaotic jumble of flashing lights, raised voices, and the terrified face of the poor redhead. The one whose life I had so casually, so brazenly, usurped. The one who had been led away in handcuffs and was now sitting in a jail cell, accused of theft. A theft that I knew, with a sickening certainty, I myself was responsible for. 

I rose, the cool air sending a shiver down my spine. A silk robe, embroidered with delicate silver thread, lay draped across a nearby chair. I slipped it on, the smooth fabric a stark contrast to the rough texture of my conscience. 

The adjoining bathroom was a sanctuary of marble and glass. A freestanding clawfoot bathtub, gleaming like a pearl, sat beneath a window overlooking the manicured gardens. A separate shower enclosure, with jets spraying from every angle, promised a refreshing start to the day. The air was fragrant with the subtle scent of lavender and sandalwood, emanating from a diffuser perched on a small table beside a pile of fluffy, white towels.

 I turned on the taps, the water gushing forth in a torrent, quickly filling the tub. I added a generous dollop of luxurious bath oil, watching as the water transformed into a milky, fragrant cloud. Stepping into the warm embrace of the bubbles, I sank back, letting the water soothe my muscles. But the luxurious surroundings, the comforting warmth, did little to ease my troubled thoughts. The image of the other Melissa's distraught face haunted me. The accusation of theft, so carelessly thrown, now felt like a brand seared into my own soul. 

The realization hit me like a physical blow. I had set the whole thing in motion, a chain of events triggered by my own selfish desires. I had wanted the life of privilege, the escape from my own dreary existence. And now, an innocent girl was paying the price. 

The irony wasn't lost on me. I, the fake student, had been the one slipping the other Melissa Jones small sums of cash over the past few days. Not out of kindness, not exactly. More like a twisted game, a way to exert a subtle power. I'd told herself it was harmless. But now, that same money, misconstrued as theft, was the supposed motive for the arrest. Money that, ironically, came from the the redhead's own monthly allowance, entrusted to her by her parents. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. It was a twisted joke, a cruel twist of fate. 

I closed my eyes, trying to block out the intrusive thoughts. The warm water lapped against my skin, a temporary comfort in the midst of my turmoil. But even the luxurious surroundings, the promise of a relaxing soak, couldn't erase the gnawing guilt that was eating away at me. The fragrant bubbles, once inviting, now seemed to mock me, their delicate fragrance turning cloying. I was trapped in a gilded cage of my own making, a prisoner of my own deceit. The luxurious room, the expensive bath, all felt tainted, reminders of the wrong I had committed. I knew I had to do something, anything, to rectify the situation. But the question was, what? How could I possibly undo the damage I had caused? A wave of nausea washed over me. I needed to think. Clearly. 

Confessing was out of the question. The consequences... I couldn't even contemplate them. Yet, the current situation was unbearable. This gilded cage had become a prison of my own making. I was trapped, not just by my lies, but by the weight of my own actions. The luxurious bubble bath, meant to soothe me, only amplified the gnawing unease. I was Miss Melissa Jones, living a stolen life, and the price of that life was rapidly becoming too high to pay. 

With a sigh, I climbed out of the tub, the water draining away along with my brief respite. Wrapped in a towel, I approached the chair where my schoolgirl uniform lay neatly folded. The tailored blazer, adorned with the prestigious school's crest, hung like a cloak of power and prestige. The crisp white shirt, a symbol of innocence and scholarly rigor, whispered of the purity I had abandoned. The pleated, neatly pressed tartan skirt, a nod to the institution's storied past, reminded me of the graceful dance of deception I had performed to get here. 

Donning the stylish uniform felt like a silent confession, an acknowledgment of the life I had stolen. Each piece slid into place with an eerie ease, as if the garments themselves were complicit in my masquerade. The tie, a navy blue stripe against the stark white, felt like a noose tightening around my neck with every knot. The blazer was a second skin, a costume that both concealed and exposed my true nature. The skirt swished around my thighs, a constant reminder of the steps I had taken down this path. 

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I had to do. It was time to face Mrs. Williams. My head teacher was known for her sharp gaze and even sharper tongue. I had always found her intimidating, but now she was the one person I had to confess to. The weight of my decision settled heavily on my shoulders as I descended the grand staircase, my steps echoing through the quiet house. 

The door to Mrs. Williams' office was a heavy, mahogany slab that looked as if it could tell a thousand secrets. I knocked tentatively, the sound echoing in the hallway. "Come in," her voice called out, firm and unwavering. I placed my fingers on the biometric scanner pad, the green light flashing in recognition. A message was displayed on the screen: "Fingerprints recognized and identity as Miss Melissa Jones, first class student, verified and authenticated. Access granted. Welcome inside." The door clicked open, the scent of aged leather and polished wood greeting me as I stepped into the dimly lit room. 

The room was a study in order, a stark contrast to the turmoil within me. Books lined the walls, their spines gleaming in the soft light filtering through the window. A large, mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, its surface clear save for a neatly stacked pile of papers and a gleaming, silver pen. Mrs. Williams sat behind the desk, her posture ramrod straight, her expression unreadable. She wore her usual attire: a severe, dark suit, its lines sharp and unforgiving, and a crisp white blouse. Her grey hair was pulled back into a tight bun, emphasizing the lines of her face. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, regarded me with a scrutiny that made my stomach churn. 

"Miss Jones," she said, her voice cool and measured. "Please, sit down." 

I sank into the chair opposite her, the leather creaking beneath me. I clasped my hands together, trying to still their trembling. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as Mrs. Williams continued to observe me. I could feel the weight of her gaze, piercing through my carefully constructed façade. 

"I need to talk to you," I began, my voice quivering. "It's about the... the maid accused of theft." 

"Ah, yes, the regrettable incident," Mrs. Williams said, her tone measured. "I understand you know the girl in question, Miss Jones." 

"I do," I nodded, the words sticking in my throat. "Mrs. Williams, there's something you should know. That money..." I paused, searching for the right words, "She didn't steal it. I gave it to her." The words felt like molten lead on my tongue. 

Mrs. Williams' eyes narrowed. "You gave her the money? Why?" 

I struggled to find the words to explain my twisted motivations. "I... I don't know," I lied, the lie feeling like a physical weight on my chest. "I just... I felt sorry for her." 

Mrs. Williams didn't respond, her silence more damning than any accusation. I could feel the sweat prickling my palms, my heart pounding in my chest. 

"That's not the whole story, is it, Miss Jones?" she said, her voice low and dangerous. 

I looked down at my hands, unable to meet her gaze. "No," I whispered. 

"Tell me the truth," she demanded, her voice leaving no room for argument. 

I swallowed hard. "I... I did compensate her for... services rendered. It was for help with my assignments. I... I've been struggling. Especially with your class, the one about... maintaining the balance of power." The irony of the situation wasn't lost on me. I, pretending to be a privileged student, had resorted to exploiting the actual underprivileged one. 

A flicker of something – was it amusement? – crossed Mrs. Williams's face. "And you thought this was an appropriate solution? To subcontract your academic responsibilities to a member of the staff?" 

"No," I said quickly, shaking my head. "It wasn't like that. I... I didn't mean for it to happen. It just... evolved. I was overwhelmed, and she offered to help. I know it was wrong." My voice was barely a whisper. "But Mrs. Williams, the police... they think she stole the money. Because of her... her past record, they're saying she's a repeat offender. She could go to jail. For years. Over a few measly banknotes she didn't even steal." 

Mrs. Williams's gaze remained unwavering. "Miss Jones," she began, her voice carrying the weight of centuries of established order, "You must understand that the fate of a mere servant is not your concern. These matters are for the authorities to handle." 

"But Mrs. Williams," I protested, desperation seeping into my voice, "It's not just about the money. It's about justice. She's innocent of theft!" 

Mrs. Williams steepled her fingers, her gaze unyielding. "Miss Jones," she said, her voice a knife slicing through my words, "you're speaking of a servant. A girl who should have known better than to accept money from one of her betters. It is not our place to question the law's judgment. She has a history of... indiscretions. This is a swift and necessary lesson." 

"But it's not fair!" I protested, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "She didn't do anything wrong. I... I'm the one who's responsible." 

Mrs. Williams leaned back in her chair, her eyes cold and unyielding. "Miss Jones," she said, "You seem to be under the mistaken impression that life is equitable. That everyone is afforded the same opportunities, the same lenience. However, this is not the case. Some are born to serve, while others are born to lead. Your guilt is misplaced. You've done nothing more than exercise the privileges of your position. It's a hard lesson, but you must understand the way of the world. Your maid is here to serve. She is not your equal, and her fate is not our concern. By using the girl to maintain your academic performance, you have just done what is expected of a young lady of your standing." 

Her words hit me like a sledgehammer. I realized that by trying to escape my own mundane reality, I had become the very monster I had sought to leave behind. The monster that used and discarded people without a second thought. The monster that could sleep in a bed of luxury while an innocent girl faced the horrors of injustice. 

"Mrs. Williams," I said, my voice shaking with determination, "There's something you need to know. Something I should have told you from the very beginning. The girl taken in custody isn't the one who committed the thefts appearing in her record. She's not a thief at all." 

Mrs. Williams's expression remained stoic, unmoving. "Miss Jones," she said, her tone unchanged, "I am fully aware of your... situation and of the girl's." 

The revelation hit me like a cold splash of water. "You know?" I stammered, feeling the color drain from my face. 

Mrs. Williams nodded solemnly. "I've had my suspicions since our first lesson together. Your... passionate speech about equality and freedom was quite enlightening. It was clear then that you were not the Melissa Jones I had been expecting." 

The room spun around me, and I felt the floor tilting beneath my feet. "But how could you know about her?" I whispered, my voice barely audible. 

"I have my ways," Mrs. Williams said, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "But what is truly fascinating is how quickly you've adapted to your new role. It seems your passion for social justice was but a façade." 

I felt the blood rush to my face. "That's not true," I protested, but my voice lacked conviction. 

Mrs. Williams leaned forward, her expression unreadable. "Isn't it, Miss Jones?" she said, her eyes boring into mine. "The girl you've so readily stepped into the shoes of has become a servant. She's known nothing here but hard work and struggle, while you," she gestured around the room, "have been pampered and coddled. Yet, when you understood her situation and had the chance to give her back her place, you did nothing with it, chosing instead to exploit her." 

The room grew smaller, the walls closing in on me as the truth of her words sank in. "But... I just wanted to see," I stuttered, grasping for any justification. "I wanted to know what it was like." 

"And what have you learned?" Mrs. Williams's voice was cold, cutting through the silence like a scalpel. "That the life of privilege comes with a cost? That the comforts of this world are paid for by those less fortunate than yourself?" 

I nodded, feeling the full weight of her accusation. "I didn't mean for it to happen like this," I whispered. "I just wanted to see. To understand." 

Mrs. Williams's expression softened slightly, but the steel in her eyes remained. "The girl you've been impersonating has endured far greater hardships at Elmwood than you can imagine, Miss Jones. And yet, she's been a model servant, a testament to her resilience. By doing so, she has proven that she didn't deserve to be a privileged student. But you," she leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper, "you've proven that you could indeed be one of us. You've embraced the role with a disturbing ease, manipulating and exploiting those around you." 

The words stung, but I couldn't refute them. "What do you suggest I do?" I asked, the tremble in my voice betraying my fear. 

"You will return to your classes," Mrs. Williams said firmly. "You will continue to be the model student, the charming young lady we've all come to know. And you will forget this ever happened and never tell anyone about your past identity." 

My stomach clenched. "But Mrs. Williams, the other Melissa... she's in jail! We can't just ignore this." 

Mrs. Williams's eyes narrowed. "Give me a good reason to care for her," she challenged. 

I searched for the words to explain, to somehow justify my actions. "Because it's the right thing to do," I said, my voice firm despite the tremble in my hands. "Because she's been through enough. Because she's innocent!" 

Mrs. Williams's smile was cold, her eyes as unyielding as steel. "Those are noble sentiments, Miss Jones," she said, "but they hold no sway here. This is the real world, not some romanticized tale of heroism. In this world, we have rules and expectations. And you have chosen to live by the rules of the privileged, to reap the benefits of this lifestyle. In doing so, you must also accept the responsibilities that come with it." 

My mind raced as I searched for a way out of this tangled web. "But if the other Melissa is such a model servant," I argued, my voice growing stronger, "wouldn't it be better to have her here at Elmwood, continuing her service, rather than locked in a jail cell?" 

Mrs. Williams studied me for a long moment, then nodded once. "That," she said, "is a much better approach. You're learning." 

I took a deep breath, trying to still my racing heart. "Can we do something for her?" I asked, feeling the weight of the question. "The other Melissa, I mean." 

Mrs. Williams's smile was cold, her eyes as unyielding as steel. "The proper question, Miss Jones, is not what we can do for her, but what she can do for us. She is, after all, a servant now. Her role is to serve." 

My mind raced. The words felt like acid, burning their way through my conscience. I knew what Mrs. Williams was implying, and the thought made me sick. But I also knew that the real Melissa was languishing in a jail cell, accused of a crime she didn't commit. I had to get her out. I had to fix this. Even if it meant playing Mrs. Williams's twisted game. I had to convince her. I had to make her see that freeing the girl was in the school's best interest. Even if it meant resorting to the same kind of cold, manipulative logic that Mrs. Williams herself employed. 

"You're right, of course," I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I forced a small, hesitant smile. "But wouldn't it be... advantageous to have her back as soon as possible? I mean, the other staff... they're unsettled. Her absence is disrupting the school routines. And," I hesitated, hating myself for the calculated manipulation, "and there's the... discretion factor. The less time she spends in police custody, the less chance there is of... misunderstandings. Of her telling her side of the story to the wrong people. It could reflect poorly on the school, on its biometrics system, on... everything we've built here." 

Mrs. Williams's eyes narrowed, but I could see a flicker of something – was it approval? – in their depths. "You're thinking strategically, Miss Jones. A valuable trait." 

I pushed on, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. "And if the police were to question the biometrics system's integrity, it could lead to a full investigation, which might uncover... irregularities. It would be such a shame if the school's reputation were tarnished over a simple... misunderstanding." 

Mrs. Williams steepled her fingers, considering my words. "Indeed," she murmured, her eyes glinting with something akin to respect. "Elmwood's reputation is paramount. The biometrics system is the cornerstone of our security and privacy. Any doubt cast upon its reliability would be most... unwelcome." 

"Precisely," I said, keeping my voice calm despite the racing of my heart. "And when it comes to the school's reputation, even the implication of impropriety should be avoided. As you so eloquently put it in your last lesson, 'Caesar's wife must be above suspicion'. If the police start poking around, who knows what they might find?" 

Mrs. Williams's eyes narrowed, the silence in the room as sharp as a knife. I watched her weigh the implications of my words. 

I pressed on, the words tumbling out now, each one a betrayal of everything I claimed to believe in. "It's about maintaining order, ensuring stability. If the girl's back here, working, serving, it sends a clear message. Things are back to normal. No need for gossip, no need for speculation. And, of course," I added, lowering my voice conspiratorially, "it keeps her... contained. She's less likely to cause trouble if she's under our supervision." 

Mrs. Williams steepled her fingers again, her gaze fixed on me. "So, you're suggesting we expedite her release, not out of any sense of altruism, but for purely pragmatic reasons?" 

I swallowed hard. "Yes," I admitted, the word heavy with guilt. "It's the most... efficient solution. For everyone involved." 

A slow smile spread across Mrs. Williams's face. "Indeed, Miss Jones. Efficiency is paramount. Very well," she said, her voice cold. "I shall speak with the dean. It won't be easy, but perhaps the right argument can persuade her to drop the charges against the girl. But let us be clear: this is not be an act of mercy. It is a strategic move to protect the school and its reputation." 

"Thank you, Mrs. Williams," I said, my voice hollow. 

"Don't thank me, Miss Jones," she replied, her smile chilling. "Thank yourself. You've proven that you understand how things work here. You've proven that you belong. And of course, if the girl returns, she will remain a servant under strict supervision. She will work twice as hard to prove her worth, to demonstrate her loyalty. Is that understood?" 

My own words felt like poison in my mouth. But I pushed on. "Perfectly, Mrs. Williams," I said, lowering my voice slightly. "The girl's release will ensure her silence. She'll be grateful, indebted. She won't risk jeopardizing her position, her livelihood, by speaking to anyone about what happened. Especially not about my own... involvement.

Mrs. Williams leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable. "You're becoming quite adept at this, Miss Jones," she said, a hint of something that might have been amusement in her eyes. "You understand the... nuances... of power." 

I swallowed hard. "I'm just trying to protect the school," I said, the lie burning my throat. I had played the game, and secured Mrs. Williams' support. But the victory felt hollow, tainted by the knowledge of what I had sacrificed to achieve it. The other Melissa might be released from jail, but at what cost? I had become complicit in the very system I had once sought to challenge. I was no longer an outsider looking in. I was part of the machine that ground down the weak and elevated the powerful, a cog in the wheel of privilege and exploitation. 

Mrs. Williams nodded, her expression satisfied. "Excellent. I knew you would see reason. Now, about your classes..." She gestured towards the door. "I believe you have a rather important lesson to attend. Something about the... balance of power." 

I rose, my legs feeling like lead. As I walked towards the door, I glanced back at Mrs. Williams. She was watching me, her eyes filled with a chilling mixture of amusement and something else, something more sinister. I knew then that I had made a deal with the devil. And the price of that deal was not just my soul, but also the continuation of the other Melissa's servitude. I was no longer just impersonating a privileged girl. I was her. And I was trapped.